


Unseen at the Deep'ning Eve

by denorios



Series: WW1 AU [4]
Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, WW1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-27
Updated: 2011-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-15 03:22:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/denorios/pseuds/denorios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WW1 AU: November 1918, Noyers</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unseen at the Deep'ning Eve

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the poem 'Matthew Copse' by John William Streets, killed and missing in action on 1st July 1916. Thanks to farad for suggesting the poem, and for so much more.

_The guns fall silent._  
 

  


Chris kisses Vin for the first time on a cold Monday in November, and ever after Vin will always remember it not as the day the war ended but the day when something infinitely greater began.  
 

  


_One moment the noise is constant, ebbing and flowing in waves over the trenches, but always there, always in motion; and then silence, sudden and abrupt, the strained absence of noise somehow more intrusive to Chris than its presence. He feels the weight of that silence, heavy and thick with meaning, with possibility._  
 

  


Vin’s memories of the Armistice will always be irretrievably bound up with the feel of Chris' skin beneath his fingers, Chris' lips soft on his, the weight of his firm chest and lean thighs. Vin will only have to hear talk of the war to feel a flush creeping across his body, a warm heaviness in his belly; and when he turns away people will chalk it up to war neuroses, to shock or trauma, to anything but the truth.  
 

  


_Chris sees the men shake their heads, roll their shoulders, rubbing their ears and looking at one another with faces open and questioning. They move slowly, stiffly, like dreamers awakening from a long slow sleep, like sailors washed ashore on a strange land waiting for a swell that will never come._  
 

  


Back to the wall of the dugout, dust in his hair, dirt beneath his fingernails, and there's nothing but Chris. The world fades away - the exultant shouts, the shots fired not in anger but in celebration, the blessed silence of the artillery, all nothing compared to this moment, this kiss.  
 

  


_Standing in No Man's Land, face lifted up to the weak autumn sun, arms outstretched, Chris also waits. He can almost hear the hushed, held breath of the men in the trenches beyond and behind, anticipating the smack of bullets into flesh, the whine of the shells, the slow crumpled explosion._  
 

  


Chris kisses like he's dying, like he's drowning, like Vin is oxygen and water and his only hope of salvation. There's no finesse to his kiss, it's greedy and desperate, Chris' arm hooked around Vin's neck, Vin's fingers curling in the sleeves of Chris' shirt, pulling and straining at each other, not close enough, not ever close enough. Even when he pulls back, chest heaving, pupils dilated, he stays pressed against Vin, hips to thighs to chest, forehead resting against Vin's, each breath shared between them.  
 

  


_But the guns remain silent, and the only sound he hears is his own breath, low and even, the dull thump of his heart in his ears, the hum of the wind through the wire. He closes his eyes and listens to nothing but himself for the first time in two years, to the words his heart whispers._  
 

  


"It's over," Vin whispers, his eyes still closed. "We can go home, Chris. We can go home."  
 

  


_He's waited, he doesn't know how long; he's fought so hard against his hopes, not letting himself dare to dream of a future with Vin. Hope is dangerous in the trenches, subtle and insidious, too dangerous to allow it to blossom and bloom. He's seen hope drive men mad. So he's pulled back when all he wants is to reach out to Vin, held his tongue when all he wants to do is speak to Vin, lay out his innermost heart, pull it out and lay it before Vin. But if the war is over, if the war is over…_  
 

  


There were days when America felt like a dream to Vin, when he could hardly remember a world without mud and guns and blood, and he didn't dare imagine there could be such a thing as the future. And he didn't mind, he never minded as long as he could look up and see Chris, reach out and touch Chris. Chris is all he's ever needed, in this life or any other, and he could never hate the war that brought them together.  
 

  


_Chris knows what he wants, in this moment, what his heart longs for; and when the cheering begins, faint at first but soon growing louder and louder, carried on the gentle breeze that tugs at his hair, he opens his eyes and smiles to see Vin standing before him. Vin’s head is bare, no cap, no helmet, and his hands are spread wide and empty._  
 

  


"Where's home, Vin?" Chris asks, and his voice is soft, hesitant. "Vin. Where's home?" But Vin keeps his eyes closed, his lips curving in a smile, and he says nothing.  
 

  


_The rifle shots begin, fired wildly into the air, and Vin flinches for a moment. Chris steps forward into the curve of Vin’s body, takes his hand and just holds on. The first men begin to appear above the parapets, moving slowly, cautiously, into the forbidden territory, but the cheering grows stronger, louder, on both sides now, and they begin to step out bravely to the Germans crossing to meet them._  
 

  


"Vin," Chris whispers, and Vin can only shake his head, wordless, his smile growing and growing until he feels like he'll break inside, the small guarded shell of his heart bursting open and blossoming into something strange and wonderful.  
 

  


_Chris watches Vin silently, rubbing his thumb slowly across Vin’s palm. Vin ducks his head, almost shyly, his nose brushing Chris’ shoulder. Chris brings his arms up, as though to shield Vin from the uproar now surrounding them – men shouting, cheering, embracing, weeping, Germans, Americans, French, British._  
 

  


Vin lifts his hands instead, first to Chris' shoulders, pushing him back just far enough, smiling again as Chris' body curves to follow him, and then to his face, tracing by touch. He grazes a thumb over the fading bruise on Chris' cheekbone, the smattering of cuts across his temple. He ghosts his fingers down Chris' cheek, curling his palm around the back of his head and leaning in to press a gentle kiss against the vulnerable arch of his neck.  
 

  


_Vin looks up to whisper in Chris’ ear, his eyes warm and bright. His lips graze the tender shell of Chris’ ear and he grins as Chris shivers at his touch. Chris doesn't need to say anything, doesn't need to say yes or stay with me or I love you, because he's been saying it silently for so long, so often, in so many ways, that maybe Vin doesn't need to hear it to know._  
 

  


"You," Vin murmurs finally against Chris' skin, feeling the stutter of Chris' pulse beneath his lips, the hitch in his breath, delighting in the small surprised sounds Chris makes as Vin flits his tongue out to taste Chris' skin. "You’re my home."


End file.
